


Chime When the Bells are Gone

by aucrio



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Abuse of italics, Angst, Ford Pines Has Issues, Ford Pines Needs a Hug, Ford Pines whump, Happy Ending? Eh I wouldn't say so but he lives doesn't he, Hurt Ford Pines, Hurt No Comfort, Not Beta Read, Stan Pines Needs A Hug, Stangst, We Die Like Men, dont we all, idk how to tag for this fandom, implied mutism, inappropriate amount of music metaphors, just give them hugs pls, pls give owl man a break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24958615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aucrio/pseuds/aucrio
Summary: There's a cacophony of the wreckage between them, but one noise drowns out the rest.
Relationships: Stanford Pines & Stanley Pines
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	Chime When the Bells are Gone

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work under the Gravity Falls fandom! It may seem out of character, so I apologize in advance. Also haven't written in a while, so this isn't my best but hey– at least it's something, right?
> 
> Edit: Also, this is inspired by @The_Little_Sun with their own mute!Ford fic (I'm sorry for forgetting to give credit!)

Everything is loud. It's a different sort of loud than what he's accustomed to. It's a sort of loud that _takes_ and _rips_ and _fills_. It's carving cracks into the walls and nestling deep into the crevices to save for later. It's arms are gangly and withered, but they're made of broken glass that shrieks with every jolt. It reaches into his chest and plucks his ribs with a jagged pick, strangling out a broken cry of _something_. He isn't sure it's him that's screaming or reality itself, but either one is inhumane and defaning. The acoustics swallow the noise and barfs it back up with a sound of its own. It's louder, it's uglier, and it doesn't fucking stop.

In honey slicked praise, Mabel's words ring loud yet soft against the clash of noise.

_I trust you._

There's a bone-chilling verse that ripples through his bones, but there's no player to control the beat. It's out of sync and out of tune, but it keeps playing with an urgence. The tempo changes at every line, the stanzas are out of order, and the choir no longer sings but screeches. The song reaches its crescendo and it is nothing but white noise. There's static mingling in the air with no hint of stopping. There's wetness growing beneath his eyes, but he isn't sure if it's blood, sweat, or tears– but it doesn't matter because it pulls him under and finally, _finally_ , the music is drowning.

Everything is muffled. A hint of baritone rumbles in the distance, but he can't see for there's whiteness in his eyes and filling his senses. The rippling in his bones transcends from its harmonious rhythm. The water vibrates as if encased in glass on top of a speaker. But beyond his sight, there is nothing _but_ nothing and then, _he_ is drowning.

It's all too much. There isn't enough room for his own accord. He is shoved into a box with no opening and no idea of which way is up. He can only drift in his own making and pray for the finale.

He's ripped from beneath the waves to face the music, and he almost begs, hands and knees and all, to be swallowed up again _(because all of his work, all that he has done– he almost starts to doubt if it was all worth it [with a bitter, broken laugh he settles on yes])_. He's at the point of tearing through the whiteness to curse out every being beyond the basement, but just like that, it stops.

It's silent.

And then there is nothing but granite between his teeth and broken debris digging into his skin. The finale is here and almost at its end, and the aftermath is nothing but its rising number. An ocean of detritus engulfles spaces across the floor, consuming machinery and dust beneath its feet. Tendrils of wires hang dangerously low from their respective placements. They sway in tandem from the wind barreling beyond the cornflower hue of the–

He almost starts to cry. He isn't sure if it's from fear or relief, perhaps both, but the knots twisting in his stomach reaches for his throat. He did it.

And then– _he did it_. He doesn't know what will stumble into their dimension, but all he can do is hope for the familiar unkempt hair and six fingered wave to flounder through the blue glow. He's been hoping for thirty years.

Thirty years having spent tweaking his thumbs and piecing together _whys_ and _hows_ – he is done doing his share.

He has done his waiting.

Staggering to his feet takes more effort than he thought, but he must be seeing things– there must be dust catching at his lenses because there's something, _someone_ , reaching through the brightness and pulling themselves through. The hum of the portal grows louder and the beam that had held it up groans. There's murmuring of the kids and Soos mingling with the creaking of the splintered scaffold. The wind is reverberating, almost ripping through his person with a fervent malice. It's an ugly cacophony, and with startling clarity, the finale picks up again.

The decrescendo isn't as quiet as it should be.

But he could care any less because the someone slips into reality in a distinct _whoosh_ , and—

"Who is that?"

His answer is pushing past the knot tightening in his throat, but they falter as he realizes– _something is wrong_.

The someone _(they have his stupid sideburns, they have his six fingered features)_ stumbles from the portal in squelching steps with nothing to show for, and he knows that there must be something missing for he is that _someone’s_ brother– he just knows.

Stan tears through the wall of noise, "Stanford..?"

And his brother _(his brother who has been missing for thirty years leaving nothing but hurt and regret and three journals outlining his being and Holy Moses– what happened to you Sixer?)_ collapses.

With no thought to break the verses, Stan scrambles to his side, wrapping his jacket over the shivering ball of his twin and just holding him– holding _them_ together with no intent to let go. There's no room for the noises to slip between them, and he will not let there be time to rip him away again _(for he is hellbent on keeping him here)_. He grips the lapels of Ford's jacket, a beat up black overcoat that's too thin and too damaged to do any good, and keeps him there with a sharpness in his eyes to stoke the bonfire in his belly. There's something wet growing between them, but Stan is at the brink of hysteria to see if it's tears or blood to ruin the illusion that his brother is finally with him _(he is finally here after all these years of pulling and pushing and wondering if he will ever come home please come home I'm sorry please don’t leave m—)_

Then Ford is making some sick gurgle, some wounded whimpering sound that is quickly lost in the roar of pandemonium.

Stan pulls away, hands cupping the five o'clock stumble in shaking hands and chokes, "Sixer, what's wrong?"

Ford flinches violently, retching himself from their embrace. There's too much space, and the loud that had snuck into the crevices of the walls, swarm between them. It's the same growing chasm that had started this in the first place. The idea of coming back to square one terrifies him.

_I am not losing you again._

"Pointdexter, talk to me– what's wrong?"

_Stanford, what did I do to you?_

The chasm starts to grow wider and for the second time, the music builds to an ear-splitting cry.

Stan shuffles, the wreckage of their relationship crunching beneath his knees. “Ford?”

Ford doesn’t answer, but instead taps. In a white knuckled grip, he taps along to some tuneless beat only he could hear through the inferno swallowing them whole.

_Please._

The decrescendo is messy and disorienting.

“Are.. are you hurt?” It’s a stupid thing to say, he knows and he knows Ford knows because his brother glances at him with something in his eyes. He averts his eyes as soon as Stan’s lock with his.

The trumpets and drums are echoing in his chest now. The keys of the piano are falling apart and are hanging by the threads of Ford’s bandage. The fret of the guitar comes apart from abuse.

There’s something not right.

Ford taps.

Stan stares.

And then the finale comes to a caesura– he understands.

Ford is tapping.

The wrong that hangs over his head is glaringly bright.

_I’M SORRY I’M SORRY S.O.S. I’M SORRY_

The finale comes to an end.

But Ford’s silence carries onwards, stretching on to days and weeks and even months– and it’s louder than any number.

**Author's Note:**

> More hurt coming in the future dw :)))
> 
> tumblr is @jollyhaunt  
> twitter is @AIRZVN


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